Back around the turn of the century—the most recent one where the internet had been invented and conversion vans had VHS decks in the back—I took a series of three annual road trips with a group of friends. L.A. (Drea), Connecticut (Pooh), New York (Skrug), Tennessee (me), New Zealand (The Kiwi), Alabama (WooHoo)…we were from everywhere, and we ranged in age from 20 to…they’ll murder me if I tell you.
Then, they’ll also likely murder me for that picture and dragging out the old nicknames, but c’est la vie.
Any time you get that much estrogen in various degrees of concentration one place, there’s going to be drama. And there was plenty. We all drifted apart not too terribly long after our final road trip in 2000, but through the years, and largely thanks to Facebook, we’ve reconnected.
Our second L.A. couch-crash was at Drea’s house. She’s a native, but two of the other girls, Skrug and Pooh, are L.A. transplants, so of course, a reunion, nearly 15 years passed (and minus WooHoo and The Kiwi), was necessary.
Drea organized what turned into a massive Fourth of July party at her place. Her sister, niece, aunts, cousins, friends, and fireworks. It was a grand old time. I admit, I missed chunks of it. After our marathon Disney day on the 3rd, I fell asleep once on the living room floor (classy) and once curled up in the tailgate of my car while firecrackers and mortars went off all around us.
It was a spectacular time, though. Earl made friends and finally got to indulge in some serious Minecraft time.
She hung out with Pooh’s kidlets for bubble wars and sparklers, and later helped the bigger kids light our own supply of fireworks out in the street. Drea’s house is up on a rise, and at one point, I counted no fewer than 21 separate shows going on around us in every direction. It was amazing and awesome and somewhere I have possibly-watchable GoPro video, but the iPhone was hopeless at capturing the sheer scope of celebration.
It was great at capturing the sheer scope of Drea’s fatcat kitty Timmy, though.
Actually, no. even that doesn’t do Tim justice. That, my friends, is a huge cat. And he’s fat. But he’s a sweetums.
I enjoyed the friends, Earl enjoyed the cats.
Oh, and let’s not forget that my friends are awesome enough that, even though she’d never met my kid until we showed up at her front door, Drea got Earl an early birthday cake complete with Olaf. Someone was just a little surprised.
The fireworks continued well after Drea’s party had broken up. Just past midnight, Earl rolled over to me in bed and moaned, “Don’t they know they can stop now? It’s July 5th. It’s done!”
The next morning, we lazed around for a bit, then met up with Pooh and Skrug for brunch at The Waffle.
OMG.
Red Velvet Waffles, people. I’d have taken a picture, but I swallowed them whole before they hit the table because they were divine. Also, sticky whiskey bacon. Same story, except we fought over that which left no hands for cameras.
From there, it was a short walk to a music mecca, passing these guys along the way. BA-NA-NAAAAAA!!!
Music Mecca in this case was Amoeba Records. I texted Boo to let her know where we were, and her response was, “A religious experience.” Pretty dern close.
Two floors of CDs and Vinyl and DVDs and posters and WOW.
After we got our vintage on, it was time for the cheese in the form of a cheesy Hollywood celebrity home tour. Because Earl had never been to Hollywood, and everyone who comes to Hollywood has to do it at least once. It’s a rite of passage, truly. Never mind that she has no clue who most of the people who owned the houses you can actually see are/were. Current celebs are all hidden behind shrubs and gates and are total party poopers.
Lucy huh? Who-ly Temple ? Carol Bur-what’s her name?
I kid. I’m not that rotten of a parent. She’s seen I Love Lucy. She’s watched Shirley Temple movies. She’s heard my horrid impression of Carol Burnett’s Tarzan yell.
She obviously knows Michael Jackson, though, and was impressed with his old elementary school.
Her fascination with certain venues continued: The house where MJ died, The Viper Room where River Phoenix died on the front sidewalk, the Beverly Hilton where Whitney drowned. Any mention of death, that kid caught it.
My favorite was the witch house, though. Privately owned, it’s appropriately a Halloween destination.
The tour went way late, dinner was even later at Johnny Rockets, we snagged the obligatory group long-arm four-fie above, and all dragged off back to our respective homes. Because in L.A., nothing is less than half an hour away.
My night stretched on for a while, as I took advantage of Drea’s laundry room to refresh our clothes. This time, it was Drea’s turn to pass out on the living room floor.
In the old days, there’d have probably been alcohol involved. This weekend, though, it was the mere realization that excitement is far more exhausting 15 years down the road.
Not sure how that explains the 9 year old being the first to collapse into bed, but after three days of non-stop gogogo fun, I can’t say as I blame her. I was just glad I hadn’t fallen asleep face first into my red velvet waffles earlier in the day.
Thanks to all my L.A. friends for a spectacular three days. I couldn’t have picked better friends if I’d have tried. You welcomed Harvey and Earl into your homes, your stomping grounds, and your families, and you embraced my child in a way that far exceeded my wildest expectations.
There aren’t words to express how much we appreciated it!
Andrea says
It was so fun to have you here. And even better to have you both at the party. And let’s face it – it wasn’t exactly hard to welcome that adorable girl into our homes, lives, etc. She’s a pleasure and she’s well behaved and that’s not an accident. Don’t know her daddy, but do know her mommy and I’d expect no less just on that basis.
Come back any time. Bring the Daddy and the Gran too. I can’t remember having so much fun in such a long time. A little springing of the old days is what it takes sometimes. Mwah!
Harvey says
It was SUCH a blast, A! Thanks so much for the hospitality!